Fragile Moments
by sapphtastic
Summary: A place for outtakes from my upcoming fic 'Basics," starring our beloved Mini Jack, Jonathan O'Neill ... the Jack O'Neill clone. Currently tagged as Angst/Family but that will likely change as new chapters arrive.
1. Unforgettable

Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable characters. No resemblance to any individuals, alive or dead, intended. I make no money from this work of fiction. Yadda, yadda, yadda…

_AN: I know, I know, I should be working on _Under the Streetlights, _but dude, this one just wouldn't leave me alone._

Fragile Moments _is going to be a series of various excerpts of varying lengths and persuasions from the story _Basics, _one I've been writing on for a while. It stars our beloved Mini Jack -- the Jack O'Neill clone the writers forgot. I'm not positing any of _Basics_ until _Streetlights _is finished (and that will be finished!). _

_However, as I write _Basics_, I keep coming across moments that don't necessarily fit in with the flow of the story but I can't just throw them away. So I'll put them here._

_Spoilers specifically for the _SG1 _episode _"Fragile Balance," _although honestly, anything is game. Remember, Jon is Jack's teenaged clone._

_Here we go…_

--

Unforgettable

--

It started with a whiff of her perfume.

He stopped in the middle of the grocery store isle, shelves full of bread on one side and a refrigerated case full of cheese on the other, and inhaled. Jon remembered reading somewhere about how scent is the sense most tied to the recollection of memories, and right then, right there -- he believed it.

_Romance_, it was called. Jack had bought bottles of it for Sara for birthdays and for Christmas. It was her scent. She never went a day without it.

That soft lingering scent screamed _Sara._

Jack had loved the traces of fragrance left on Sara at the end of a long day. Late in the evening as they crawled into bed together, he would bury himself in her while tucking his face into her neck, pressing his lips against her skin as he moved, reveling in the delicate scent revealed by her body, only detectable by such intimacy.

She'd shudder against Jack and he'd lose himself in her, surrounded by the heady scent of sex and of _Romance_. His shirt would still smell like her on those nights he was pulled from bed by the sound of a ringing phone. He'd sit on the plane in the early morning hours, knowing Sara was still sleeping peacefully, and he'd nod off himself, comforted by the smell of her perfume on his clothing.

Standing there in the middle of the grocery store, Jon remembered it all, and hated himself for it.

Tossing the loaf of bread into the basket, he disentangled his fingers from the plastic wrapping he'd grabbed so very tightly, and simultaneously forced himself to let go of the sticky-sweet memories.

They didn't belong to him anymore, he reasoned. Jack owned those memories; Jon was the lanky teenager, the high school student. He'd never had a family, he'd never lost a son.

He had certainly never come while screaming Sara's name. So it was of course while she was thusly on his mind that he rounded a corner and nearly bumped into the woman herself.

"Sara."

Her name was barely more than a breath on his tongue, but she looked up into his face at it, eyebrows momentarily knitting together in that way that says, _"Don't I know you?"_

Her head cocked to the side and her lips parted.

Jon ducked his head, lengthened his stride, and moved to walk past. He heard her call out.

"Wait!"

With her scent in his nose, her spirit in his soul, his steps ground to a halt and he found himself turning to face Sara. When his mind caught up to his body and realized what he'd done, Jon forced his head to tilt to the side and an insolently uttered word to cross his lips. "Yeah?"

He forced his body into the practiced adolescent nonchalant form. Tossed up his hands in front of him as if to say, _"What?" _while he blinked in feigned impatience.

All the while he was drinking her in.

Sara, the woman with whom Jack had spent a decade … she'd changed little. Her hair was longer. A little darker. But the same eyes stared at Jon out of the same face, and it took everything he had not to murmur a careless, _"Hi, how've you been?"_

Her eyes searched his, and he could see her questioning the instant recognition, looking for something to tell her _why _Jon looked so familiar. All the while an tinny speaker in the ceiling with a sense of irony crooned _Unforgettable _by Nat King Cole.

Jon took a deep breath, preparing himself to talk her out of whatever association to which she came, when he realized she'd already done the job for him. She began to shake her head, at first almost imperceptibly, then stronger, as if she was insisting to herself she didn't know Jon.

"I'm sorry," came the words from her still-parted lips. "I thought…"

Jon swallowed and murmured, "S'okay." He tore his eyes away from Sara, away from this woman he couldn't know.

He turned; he walked away.

As he reached the end of the isle, as he was rounding the corner, he heard her call out a broken apology. "I'm sorry … it's just, he would have been your age."

That's when Jon realized she hadn't been thinking of Jack at all. He dropped the basket and it stayed where it lay, bread rolling out onto the floor in its plastic wrapper while Jon walked out of the store.

The flatness of the black asphalt suited his mood, and Jon scuffed his feet as he walked impassively toward the car.

Unlocking the door, he flopped into the front seat and pulled the rear-view mirror toward himself. He examined the familiar likeness he'd been studiously ignoring for the past year, and there it was. The same brown gaze Jack had happily seen reflected back at him in the eyes of his son -- it was there on his own goddamn face.

Jon's open palm hit the steering wheel once, and then again, but the physical pain wasn't enough to distract him and so the tears began to fall.

Jon hadn't lost a son or a wife.

Instead, he'd lost damn near everything.

--

_You may want to hit the alert button on this one if you like Mini Jack. There will be more clone "moments," though they won't necessarily be continuations of each other._

_Let me know what you think. Reviews are greatly appreciated._

_Also, for those of you who know I only write to music, this fic's song list: Tremble for My Beloved by Collective Soul; You, Me and the Bourgeoisie by The Submarines; and (of course) Unforgettable by Nat King Cole._

_See you again soon._


	2. Remembered

Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable characters. I don't make any money from this. No copyright infringement intended.

Spoilers: Specific warnings would give it away. Don't read my fics if you are afraid of Stargate spoilers. Anything that has aired is game.

_AN: Another clone moment. And surprise, surprise … still in the angst/family genre. Imagine that. This is Sam/Jack if you squint. It's a throwaway from the main fic only because it doesn't fit into the timeline I've created._

_This takes place about 18 months after Jon went away to high school. Keep in mind, Jon is Jack O'Neill's teenaged clone…_

--

The sign read "Remember, this is hallowed ground," but Jon O'Neill needed no reminding.

Tour buses were pulling in to the drive behind him; students and tourists disembarked noisily amid the diesel fumes. He listened as the essence of the place gradually quieted them, the solemnity of Arlington National Cemetery bringing the chatter down to a respectful minimum. Sirens from the city of Washington DC wailed quietly in the distance.

It was nearly June, and Jonathan O'Neill, high-school student, was on a senior trip to Washington. Never mind the fact this was so not his first visit to the national capitol -- he'd kept his lips tightly closed as the group of teens toured the city's government and historic sights, allowing them to discover the gilded splendors of the bureaucracy and bullshit for their touristy selves.

He'd had to close his mind against far too many memories. Recollections that weren't his own.

And now Arlington.

Jon sighed.

The rows of white headstones crisscrossing upon green stretched off across the hills, the sight of them an elegant reminder of the order and regularity of life as it should be. Bright and light and predictable. Jon closed his eyes against the recollections of another lifetime, a lifetime interrupted too many times by tragedy.

Someone called his name, and Jon turned and looked, eyes following the group as they gathered around the tour guide.

Jonathan didn't need the nickel tour. He'd had that long ago. From the cemetery's first burial to those unknown soldiers interred in a monument to their unfortunate sacrifice -- those unknown men who had given everything, life and name, in service to their country – Jack had seen it all in his grief-induced haze.

And Jon couldn't help but feel he'd given everything as well.

He'd stripped himself of his identity -- of his _life -- _in an attempt to start over and make things right, but knew, in the end, that didn't change much.

Jon was still an O'Neill, and it was at times like this he found the teenage veneer to be wearing a little thin. He heard his name called again, and he waved a hand over his shoulder in dismissal as he walked away.

There was a list of the individuals interred at Arlington, a chart available at the front office ... but Jon wasn't lost and he didn't need directions.

He knew exactly where he was going.

The last time Jack had come here, it had been in the spring. The cherry trees had been in bloom, the sweet scent of them contrasting garishly with the bitter hole in his soul. Today the trees were vividly green and alive, waving happily in the soft breeze.

Jon set his jaw and tried to ignore nature's mockery as he walked. The pathway was swept clean, not a leaf or twig remaining to crunch beneath his feet as he strode ever closer to his destination.

Walking along the newest columbarium inurnment wall, he politely averted his eyes from the individuals knelt there. A mother and her children, tears in their eyes as they placed a tiny wreath on the marble wall housing the cremated remains of their loved one. The woman's hand caressed the stone lovingly before her hand dropped heavily into her lap, her back shaking with sobs, the two children at her side looking lost and alone.

Jon moved on, leaving the family in their moment of private reflection and loss.

As his destination came into view over the farthest hill, Jon's pace faltered, but he an invisible force drew him ever on. He counted as he walked.

_One. Two, _he recited internally, as he ordered his feet to keep his feet moving. _Three. Four. _

A trio of Army personnel walked by, the picture of decorum in their uniforms, hands clasped lightly at their backs, and Jon was reminded of the relief he felt at being in civvies. He forced his shoulders to relax as he stepped off into the grass to allow the soldiers to go by. Their glances as they passed were fleeting. No expectation of proper behavior or protocol. All anyone saw when they looked at Jon was a seventeen-year-old boy.

He walked slowly up the row, still counting his steps. Reading names. Johns, Carls, and Daves passed on his right with each stride.

His goal was just ahead. This was it.

Eight rows back.

Three stones up.

As Jon reached step number one-hundred-and-eighty-three, he finally found himself standing in the grass before the bright-white headstone.

He read the letters inscribed there.

And God did it hurt.

Jon dropped reverently to his knees, brushing away a light layer of dust from the stone's smooth surface. It powdered his palm, and he lowered a finger to trace the numbers and letters written so permanently in stone.

_Charlie_

_1994_

That spring morning at Arlington had been the most difficult of Jack's life. Having to let go of his son. He and Sara had been up all night. The plane ride had been bumpy; neither had slept. They'd bickered about something nonsensical in the solemn black limo on the way to the cemetery.

After that, Sara had simply cried.

Jon's hands dropped to his sides and fisted in the grass where he knelt as he remembered the formalities of the military funeral.

Arlington had supplied the body bearers and chaplain. The paperwork required had not surprised Jack. He knew the military had a way of paving paths with paper, but beyond it all, Jack knew something as fundamentally wrong as burying your child should never, _ever _be simple.

He'd signed paper after paper, each piece verifying his status as an active member of the US Air Force, as a former Prisoner of War. He had set his teeth against the imaginary sensation that their next request would be for Jack to submit to a tattoo gun: _Jack O'Neill, war hero._ It was already emblazoned on every officer's view of him, and a dozen sheets of typing paper … why not on his flesh?

Bitter and broken, he'd signed on the final dotted line that morning at Arlington, a paper swearing that he, Jonathan "Jack" O'Neill would be buried in the same place; it had read as a promise.

Pressing the pen more firmly than he'd meant to, Jack'd inked his name on the page in that indelible ink, saving himself a little corner of Arlington there with Charlie. He'd had to blink a few extra times to bring the page into focus as the page had swum, a palm pressed forcefully upon the cold metal desk to ground him.

Jon was pretty sure that was the very first moment a sordid thought had occurred to Jack: he didn't have to wait.

During the funeral, Jack had stood stoically beside his grieving wife, stiff and formal in his Class As. He hadn't let the tears come because he knew he didn't deserve them.

Sara had stood by, sobbing so hard he knew it had to hurt. Jack had wanted to snap at her, to shout. He'd given in to the impulse later. _Just stop, will ya?_ he'd yelled when they were finally alone and her tears had continued to flow. _I hate it when you cry._

Tears wouldn't bring Charlie back.

Nothing would.

The finality of it was intolerable.

Because it had been there in his heart. Black and sticky, he'd been unable to strip it away. No number of comforting pats at the shoulder by loved ones could undo the stark reality of the situation. Charlie was gone, and he would never forgive himself for it.

He'd condemned himself for what happened, and as the pallbearers had marched the tiny coffin to the over-sized stand, he'd wanted nothing more than to crawl into the bleak hole along with it.

Back home again, he'd passed hours upon hours sitting on Charlie's bed in the sparkling clean house. Someone, Jack wasn't sure who, had come while they'd been in Washington. He house was clean, and the food – God, the freezer was fit to burst.

And not a trace of the incident had remained.

Jon wasn't sure if Jack had wanted to thank them or curse them. Charlie's life had bled out on that floor, and nothing had remained but a memory.

Every day that passed, Charlie's imprint on the place had faded. His scent from the pillows, his toys from the rest of the house. Jack had thought of Charlie lying quietly in Arlington, waiting for him, and he'd wondered if they would take a broken man like himself or if suicide really was a deal-breaker for interment at the distinguished cemetery.

He'd been afraid to check.

Jon rubbed a rough palm across his face, trying to wipe away the memories. He gazed out over the headstones at the horizon in the distance, trying to separate himself from the painful past.

A volley of gunshots rang out over the hills, echoing across the great space in honor of yet another fallen hero, and Jon felt his body start involuntarily. He forced himself to remain calmly on his knees while everything within him wanted to stand at attention. Jonathan _felt _the snappy response he knew he could call from his body, the rigid form, the crisp salute. A second volley rang out, and then the third, and Jon heard the brass band playing Flourishes and Ruffles, calling their fallen general officer to the long sleep of death.

The mournful notes of Taps then poured over the landscape, the echo of it crisp from the thousands of headstones. It brought an ache to Jon's chest and he swallowed thickly, trying to clear the emotions the memories had wrought in him.

He let out a slow, shuddering breath as the final note rang out, the sound of it dying away slowly. Ever so sorrowfully.

Something about the farewell song never failed to elicit that old familiar feeling of heartache and Jon struggled to shake it off, his hands clenching and releasing uselessly beside him.

Jon dropped his chin to his chest, and stretched out his arms to rest his fingertips on the headstone, pressing his hands together to obscure the name written there. The marble was cold against his palms and he tried not to think of the tiny child's body alone in the dirt beneath his feet.

It was some time before Jon was startled from his reverie by the polite cough behind him.

Turning, Jon saw it was … him.

Jack.

He stood there in his dress uniform, silent, his shadow falling over Jon on the grave. Jack's hands were stuffed in his pockets, as always, the epitome of impropriety.

Pulling himself to his feet, Jon stood, and they shared an uncomfortable gaze.

It was Jack who finally broke the silence, breaking the gaze and running a hand awkwardly across the back of his neck as he spoke. "What are you--"

"Doing here?" Jon finished. "Class trip." He paused, feeling remarkably like a trespasser as Jack's eyes dropped to the headstone beside them. He felt the need to apologize, but didn't allow the words to pass his lips. Instead, his eyes fell to Jack's shoulder.

Jon's tone was serious, and he gestured at Jack as he spoke. "You've, ah, got something there," he said. Jon pantomimed the brushing off of a shoulder to Jack, delighted to see Jack's double-take as he glanced down at the uniformed shoulder, seeing only the star pinned there, glinting ridiculously in the sun.

"Uh, yeah," he finally said after a moment of consideration, squinting as he tipped his face to the sky. "God knows what they're thinking."

The idea that Jack would rise to the rank of Major General hadn't occurred to Jon often back when he was still ... Jack. "I'm surprised you'd want that," he said, the tone of it more of a question than a statement.

Jack dropped his chin and narrowed his eyes. "I didn't. But can you imagine what class of ass hat they would have assigned in my place if I'd refused to accept?" He sighed. "Besides, you know..." He shrugged non-nonchalantly. "The knees have about had it."

"No -- I _wouldn't_ know," Jon answered, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. He allowed a smile. Jon had finally come to the point that he could admit there were a few advantages to being in a young and vital body.

Jack just rolled his eyes and waved a hand at Jon in a gesture of irritation.

The wind picked up around them. Jon could hear it rushing through the leaves of the nearest tree, and he ruffled a hand through his longer hair when it had calmed down. Jack just eyed him, and Jon finally grew a little uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

"It's been awhile," the young man finally said once the silence had gone on too long. He wasn't sure if he was remarking on how long it had been since the two of them had seen each other, or the length of time since Jack had visited Charlie's grave.

Jon figured he hadn't been back since the day of the funeral.

Jack nodded absently, his gaze drifting away to the headstone, before he met Jon's eyes again. "You've grown," he remarked. A smirk crinkled the corner of his eyes.

"I know," Jon answered. He noted their nearly identical height with amusement. "Maybe I'll end up being a taller copy. I'm, ah … eating my vegetables." He gestured with one hand in the air somewhere above Jack's head. "Y'know ... '_Better, stronger, faster,_'and all that."

Jack let out a huff of a laugh at the quote, his eyes closing with the amusement of it. "So _that's _what you meant by, 'knowing everything you know now.' You're one sneaky son-of-a-bitch…" He trailed off, a small smile lingering on his face until he glanced uncomfortably down at the ground and back up, then gesturing toward the path with a tilt of his chin.

Jon allowed himself to be led away from the hallowed patch of grass, saying a silent goodbye to Charlie all the while.

Jack gave the headstone a long, lingering glance as the distance between them and the headstone grew, and he loosened his tie awkwardly with one hand, tugging at it angrily when it didn't give way readily.

They walked slowly, following the path, and Jon gave Jack the gift of a few long and silent minutes. As they crested yet another hill, Jon decided to ask. "All right, I gotta know." he began, gesturing at Jack's Class As as he spoke. "What brings you here, of all places, in that getup?" He tried to keep his voice casual, drawing out the last of the sentence playfully … though his alarm grew as Jack remained silent.

When Jack didn't answer, Jon gave him a sidelong glance. The raw grief in Jack's eyes startled him, and the younger man's feet just stopped moving.

"Who?" he demanded.

Jack stared off at the horizon for a moment before finally answering. "Dad." He cleared his throat and met Jon's eyes. "We lost dad."

Jon searched his gaze in momentary confusion. _Dad _had been gone for two decades, and they both knew it. So that just left … "Jacob." He breathed the name.

Jack's eyebrows lifted and his lips pressed together in an expression of angry unhappiness. "Got it in one."

For a long few seconds, Jon just stared painfully out at the horizon, the smooth line of it broken by the city's buildings across the river in Washington. If they'd lost Jacob Carter, who wasn't safe? Never before in his short existence had Jon felt more cut off from his previous life, or more lost. He swallowed. "I don't suppose--"

" I could tell you how? No, not quite." Jack removed his hat from his head and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "It was pretty peaceful, though." A pained look crossed his face. "Carter … ah, _Sam _and I were there." He looked everywhere except for Jon's eyes.

"How's she doing?" Jon questioned, softly.

Jack answered quickly. "Good, actually. Pretty good." He scrubbed his hand across his head again before looking around and replacing his cap. "Although I'm pretty sure it hasn't hit her yet." Jack glanced at his watch meaningfully.

Jon was at a loss for words, and the pair stood there on the sidewalk in comfortable silence, both staring off toward the distance where the headstones and grass met the blue sky.

It was Jack who finally spoke.

"I should go." He gestured toward the east end of the grounds. "Find her. She went for a walk. I'm pretty sure she was gonna go cry." The next words were spoken so softly, Jon almost missed them. "I hate it when she cries."

The familiar sentence was spoken with a caring petulance that was very different from the words so full of disgust he'd spoken to Sara a decade before.

There was another long pause.

Jon knew wherever Sam was to be in the coming days, she wouldn't be alone. She had her team, and they would surround her and support her until she healed. Though Jon knew the pain would always be there, beneath the ever-healing scars. He swallowed thickly, remembering what it was like to have a team, a family, to help him forget. Remembering all he had lost.

"So what are you waiting for?" Jon asked. "Go get Car--" He stopped short. What had Jack called her? "Sam?"

Jack just nodded, looking about himself as if he'd gotten lost on their walk.

Jon stuffed his hands in his pockets and widened his stance. "You should tell her, Jack."

"I might," the man murmured, noncommittally.

"He would've liked her," said Jon, tilting his head back to the direction from which they'd come.

Jack's head popped up from where he'd been examining the sidewalk. "I know." The corners of his mouth pulled up in a rare grin. "He really would have."

Jon found himself responding with a smile of his own, all the while shaking his head.

"See you around, old man?" he asked.

Jack nodded and took a few steps backward, almost reluctant in the motion. "Yeah," he agreed. "See ya."

Jon stayed where he stood as the older man wandered away, looking lighter than he had in years, despite the weight of his medals and stars on the uniform.

Jack O'Neill would be okay, Jon knew, as would he.

He might be lost, but he would be okay.

Someday.

--

_AN: Thanks for reading. I started this some time ago, when I discovered that the minor children of members of the US military can also be buried at Arlington. I'm also offering this one up for the GW Family Ship Thread ficathon for the prompt: "Lost."_

_Also, to **bats212** who wanted a moment between Jon and the original Jack ... I __hope you enjoyed._


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